


happiness

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Break Up, F/M, Mild Language, Minor Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Dedue Molinaro, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Post-Break Up, Sad Ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 00:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30148116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: Sylvain comes home one day to find his world ripped apart. He copes. Barely.Written for the Sylvgrid Evermore Project
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24
Collections: Sylvgrid Evermore Project





	happiness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Happiness" from Taylor Swift's album "evermore"

**~day one: right down in it~**

The vase is gone. Sylvain stands in the doorway, staring at the spot where it used to be. It isn’t that he’s sad to see it gone. He hates the thing, with its tacky painted horses and garish colours. But Ingrid saw it at a flea market and fell in love with the yellow horse because of its personality or some such nonsense.

“Ing?” he calls down the hallway, keys still in hand as he shucks his shoes and kicks them aside. “You home?”

He jumps when he enters the lounge room because there she is, sitting on the couch, arms and legs crossed. He places a hand over his heart and laughs.

“Goddess, Ing, make a noise, won’t you? I—”

As their eyes meet, Sylvain stops. There is no humour in her face.

“Ing?” he asks. “You good?”

“I’m moving out,” she says.

Sylvain blinks. He looks at Ingrid again. She is wearing her parka coat and Macuil boots. The outfit she wears when she’s going somewhere—to the stables, or on a hike, or all those other, crazy, active things that Sylvain can’t drag himself out of bed for on a Saturday morning. The laces on her boots are tied unevenly as though she’s in a hurry. It helps him comprehend what she’s saying.

“Moving out?” he repeats, lifting his eyes back to her face.

Ingrid takes a deep breath and rubs her hands on her jeans. “Yes.”

“So…” Sylvain says, lifting the strap of his satchel over his head, “you’re staying a few days at your parents’ place?”

Ingrid shakes her head. “No, Sylvain.”

She leans forward, over her crossed leg, to nudge the keys on the coffee table. Now Sylvain is staring at them, two small keys, blue and gold.

“I’m moving out,” she says. “I’m not coming back.”

Sylvain drops his satchel on the recliner chair and pulls his glasses from his nose. Closes his eyes and rubs them.

“I don’t…” he begins, but the words don’t sound right. He puts his glasses back on and forces himself to meet Ingrid’s gaze. “Neighbours finally drive you to the brink? I mean, I know they’re pretty loud, but it seems a bit drastic to—”

Ingrid interrupts him with a sigh. She drops her hands to the couch seat and pushes herself off it.

“I can’t do this,” she says. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you and you’re just—”

“Hey,” Sylvain speaks over her, “I’m just trying to understand. This doesn’t make sense—”

“—for once in your life, if you didn’t run away from or pretend that things aren’t happening—”

“—this has come out of nowhere, we haven’t even talked—”

“—but you never do and—”

“—Ingrid, are you leaving me?”

Ingrid stops. She stares at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, gorgeous green eyes weary. It stains the silence between them into something malevolent. Sylvain’s never endured such silence in his life.

No, that’s a lie. He’s experienced it once before. But it’s an unspoken rule between them: that never happened.

“Yes, Sylvain,” Ingrid says finally. “I’m leaving you.”

He drops onto the edge of the recliner. It wobbles under him, overbalanced with his weight. It’s broken and he shouldn’t sit on it like this. But he doesn’t get up.

“I’ve already packed everything,” Ingrid is saying. “And you shouldn’t panic. I’m not disappearing. I’ll be at Felix’s place, all right? You’ve got his number. And you’ve got mine, of course. Anyway, I’ll just stay there a little while until I sort things out, get my own place.”

“This is your place,” Sylvain interrupts.

The corner of Ingrid’s mouth lifts. It’s a strange expression, a mix of a smile and a smirk, heavily laced with pity. May as well be poison.

“Ingrid,” he continues, “this is your home.”

“Not anymore.” Ingrid hugs herself, drops her gaze towards the floor. “I’ll give you time to process this, okay? It’s obviously more of a shock for you than I thought it would be. Give me a call when you’re ready to talk.”

She walks past Sylvain. Straight past him, without reaching out, or touching him. Without giving him a kiss on the forehead like she usually does. When did she last do that? He tries to remember as her footsteps retreat down the hall, and it isn’t until he hears the door open that he refocuses on Ingrid’s keys on the table. He lunges forward and grabs them, jumps from the recliner and spins towards the front door.

“Ing, your keys!”

The latch clicks. Sylvain stands there, frozen, staring at the closed door. The keys still in his hand.

**~day four: dancing when the music stopped~**

Sylvain chokes back his shot and slams the glass onto the table. He wipes his mouth as he glances to his left. Dimitri’s nursing the same beer he bought when he first arrived.

“At least pretend you’re enjoying yourself,” Sylvain grumbles, reaching for the next shot.

“If you wanted to have fun, surely Felix would have been a better choice.”

Sylvain thrusts a finger towards Dimitri. “Felix is a traitor,” he spits. “He’s supposed to be my friend.”

“Would you rather Ingrid have nowhere to go?”

“Don’t start that bullshit with me,” Sylvain says, waving his shot through the air, the liquid spilling over the side. “She’s got a hundred places to go. She didn’t have to choose him.”

Dimitri shrugs and takes a sip of beer before placing his glass back on his coaster, matching it exactly to the water ring.

“Sylvain,” he says slowly. “Did you really not see it coming?”

“What?” Sylvain takes a mouthful of vodka. “Were there supposed to be signs? Clues? It’s not a bloody crime show.”

Dimitri spreads his hands. “I find it hard to believe Ingrid didn’t give any indication of her plans. Of how she was feeling.”

Sylvain slams his glass onto the counter. “Damn it, Dimitri!”

The bartender looks in their direction. She’s cute, with soulful brown eyes, short cropped purple hair. In the past Sylvain would’ve flirted. Tonight he stares back at his glass while Dimitri lifts one hand to indicate they’re fine.

“No, okay?” Sylvain says more quietly. “Not that you know anything about it. You and Byleth are like those goddess-damned perfect couples you see on ads for real estate.”

Dimitri chuckles and turns his glass in a quarter circle. “I wouldn’t say that.”

His entire manner does, however—his smile, his tone, the way he tilts his head and taps his fingers on the counter. It sours the alcohol in Sylvain’s stomach. Dimitri can’t wait to get out of the bar and back home to his pregnant girlfr—wife. Sylvain shakes his head. How could he forget the impromptu wedding in the town hall two weeks ago? Dimitri and Byleth grinning so widely their faces could crack? Both orphans and without the obligation of a Grand Event; both too impatient to wait or plan, especially with a child on the way.

Sylvain sighs and props his head between his hands.

“Listen,” Dimitri says, his voice more subdued, “is there really no chance of fixing things?”

The words escape Sylvain before he can think the better of them. “I’d take her back in a heartbeat.” He coughs and adds, less pathetically, “But I won’t beg.”

“Have you called her yet?”

Sylvain shakes his head. “What am I supposed to say?”

“Maybe ask why.”

“Why?” Sylvain snorts. “Four years, Dimitri. Four fucking years and she just walks out the door one day. I shouldn’t have to ask why. She should’ve told me!”

Dimitri sighs. “Then I don’t know what to say to you.”

Sylvain laughs and signals the bartender. As she walks towards them, her entire manner wary, Sylvain says to Dimitri, “Fat lot of help you are. You’re supposed to make me feel better.”

“As I said, you should have called Felix.”

“Fucking traitor.”

Dimitri blows his hair out of his eyes. A sign that his patience is beginning to fail. If Dimitri is losing his patience, Sylvain is doing well.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.

“Another round,” Sylvain says, gesturing to the empty shot glasses.

The bartender glances at Dimitri, who shakes his head and gestures to his half-empty beer. A moment later, two new shots are on the counter in front of Sylvain. He hands over a tenner, the bartender leaves, and the alcohol is in his hand, at his lips, poured down his throat.

“Have you eaten?” Dimitri asks.

“Not hungry.”

Sylvain reaches for the next shot, but Dimitri grabs it. He tips it down his throat and grimaces.

“Hey!”

“Getting drunk is not going to help the situation,” Dimitri says firmly. “You need to speak to Ingrid. What are you afraid of?”

Sylvain crosses his arms on the counter. “What do you think?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. Enlighten me.”

Sylvain’s stomach flips. It’s hard to say no when Dimitri starts making demands. He’s always had this strange air of authority about him, as though he ruled a kingdom in a former life.

“I’m not afraid, I…”

He trails off and focuses on the rows of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Strip lighting lines each shelf, casting a green glow against the glass, the elixirs within. It all looks very tempting. He clears his throat.

“I don’t want to hear it,” he whispers.

Dimitri puts a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Hear what?” he asks.

Sylvain’s breath shakes as he draws it in. “I don’t want to hear her say it. That she doesn’t love me anymore.”

There is a long note of silence, then Dimitri heaves a sigh.

“I still love her, Dimitri,” Sylvain says, unable to stop the words from flowing now. “I still love her. What am I going to do? I never stopped, I never…”

The tears start.

“Goddess,” he groans, head in his hands, “what am I going to do?”

**~day twelve: terror in the nightfall~**

Sylvain rolls over and grabs his phone off the nightstand. Its blue light floods the room. 2:37 AM. Only eight minutes have passed since he last looked. An eternity.

He drops his phone, rolls over again, shoves a hand under the pillow. Lifts his head and folds the pillow in half. Punches it, slams his head down again. Stares at the shadows in the room, the shapes cast by the street lamps through the uncurtained window. He never bothers to close it now. Ingrid’s the one sensitive to light. It doesn’t bother him.

It didn’t bother him. These days he finds himself obsessed with the movement of car headlights across the wall. Any one of them could be her, coming home. But for some reason, none of them are.

The bed itself feels enormous. He throws himself onto his back and stretches out his arms, his legs. He hasn’t been alone in a bed in years. Not so consistently, at least. There were those nights when Ingrid was away, either at her parents’, or travelling for work. But it hadn’t been difficult to sleep then. Because she was coming back.

He knew she was coming back.

Sylvain closes his eyes and breathes slowly, deeply.

He snaps his eyes open, picks up his phone and scrolls to Ingrid’s number.

The phone rings for a long time after he’s dialled. Long enough to allow him to question his sanity. But before the question can lead to an answer, and then the sensible conclusion, the tone abruptly stops.

“Hello?”

Shit.

“Ing?” he says. Even though he knows it’s her. He never mistakes her for anyone else. He has, after all, spent his whole life admiring her from a distance.

“Sylvain.” His name is an extended, weary sigh. “Sylvain, it’s…half past two in the morning.”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I just…I…”

She sighs again, and he stops speaking, scared of making her angry.

“It’s okay,” she says.

He hears something rustling on the other end of the line. Bedsheets? At Felix’s? Or somewhere else? With someone else?

“I’m sorry, Ingrid, this was dumb,” Sylvain says, feeling his heart fold back in on itself, retreat, retreat. “This is out of line. I shouldn’t have called, I…”

“No,” Ingrid interrupts. “I told you to call when you were ready. Are you ready?”

Sylvain stares up at the ceiling. The car headlights ghost across its surface.

“No,” he says.

The silence that follows is leaden. Sylvain can see Ingrid, standing by the window (in Felix’s house or someone else’s?) with her eyes closed. Pinching her nose. Taking a deep, fortifying breath. Tolerating him.

He sits up and stares out the window at the street below. A man is leaning against the building opposite, lighting up a cigarette. There’s an idea. Except that Sylvain doesn’t smoke.

“When do you think you’ll be ready?” Ingrid asks.

“I don’t know,” he whispers as he wonders how expensive it would be to start a habit. Not that he wants to. He hates the smell, the taste of tobacco. And yet.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says in her manager voice. Like he’s one of her incompetent inferiors, forever missing deadlines and having to rush through work. “I don’t want you to do this to yourself. I don’t want you to run from it forever. I know what you’re like, that you’ll just keep running until you’re out of breath. Please believe that I don’t want you to be in pain. I don’t want you to keep hurting like this.”

“Then why did you do it?”

The words are out there before he can stop them. And under them, another blossom of anger blooms as he hears Ingrid stutter in response. Because if she is hesitating to tell him the reason, it must be something really bad.

“Because I…” Ingrid pauses and sighs. “I can’t explain without hurting you. I don’t want to do that.”

“It’s too late to avoid hurting me,” Sylvain says.

“You won’t understand.”

“I already don’t understand, Ingrid.” He punches a fist into the mattress. “I don’t understand at all. And I miss you.”

More silence. She’s wavering.

“Did I do something?” he asks. “Is there something I can change? Because I thought we were fine. I thought we were good.”

“It’s nothing you did or didn’t do,” Ingrid replies.

“That’s the coward’s way out.”

“It’s the truth.”

“There must’ve been something that set you off.”

“Set me off…Sylvain, this isn’t some sort of…”

“I planned to spend the rest of my life with you,” he interrupts, standing.

That makes her stop again. Sylvain rests his forearm against the cold glass of the window, his forehead against that, and stares at the stranger with the cigarette.

“Don’t say that,” she says at length.

“Why not?” he demands.

“Because.”

The stranger throws the stub of his cigarette to the concrete and steps on it, before shoving his hands into his coat pockets and walking away. Leaving Sylvain alone again.

“When we started dating,” he says slowly, “I promised you the truth. About everything. Now you’re saying that’s not allowed?”

“Things are different now.”

“How? Why? Why are things different?”

“Because we aren’t together.”

“And why is that, Ingrid?” Sylvain snaps, shoving away from the window. “Why, exactly, is that?”

A choked breath. Sylvain’s gut twists. He doesn’t want her to cry.

“Ing, I…”

“I didn’t want to get married.”

She speaks in a rush, pushing the words out so fast they jumble into one. But nonetheless Sylvain feels the impact of every one of them, and is carried backwards by their force. His legs hit the bed, he sinks down onto the mattress. His fingers tighten around his phone.

“When you proposed, I felt numb,” Ingrid continues. She sounds more relaxed now that she’s expelled the toxin. “That’s not how you’re supposed to feel. And that made me think.”

Sylvain squeezes his phone. As though the pressure will block out the words.

“I’ve never wanted to get married. You do. You always have.”

“No I didn’t!” Sylvain protests. “You know what I was like in college. I didn’t propose because I want to get married. I proposed because I want to spend my life with you. You, Ingrid. You’re the difference.”

“You’re not the difference for me.”

The air leaves his lungs. He grips the edge of the mattress, trying to force his chest to rise, fall, draw in and expel oxygen.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Ingrid says under her breath. “Sylvain, I’m sorry, that was cruel. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s nearly three in the morning. I’m tired. Can we talk at a more reasonable hour?”

He can’t breathe. He’s going to suffocate, here, alone, in an empty apartment. No one will find him. No one will care.

“Sylvain?”

Ingrid sounds worried, but distant. Guarded. She knows she’s broken him. She knows what she’s done. She doesn’t care.

“Sylvain, talk to me. I…”

He drops the phone away from his ear and presses the end button.

**~day twenty-one: leave it all behind~**

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain looks up from his computer screen, then whips off his glasses and smiles at Ignatz.

“Good morning!” he says.

Ignatz’s gaze flickers to Sylvain’s computer screen. For once Sylvain doesn’t have to minimise some silly article he’s reading to pass the time. Not that Ignatz would ever comment; he’s the most easy-going manager Sylvain’s ever had.

“This is the third day in a row you’ve been here before eight,” Ignatz says. He sounds concerned rather than complimentary.

Sylvain shrugs. “What can I say,” he says. “I’m a dedicated employee.”

“Not this dedicated.”

“Which Sylvain have you been talking to? Because it sure ain’t me.”

Ignatz raises his eyebrows. Sylvain holds up both hands.

“Okay, gotcha,” he says. “Too early for jokes. Here.”

Sylvain spins his chair to face the other half of his corner desk. He picks up the pile of coloured files waiting there and turns back to Ignatz.

“Here are my comments on the draft collection management policy.” He passes Ignatz the first file. As he piles the second one on top, he adds, “And here’s the contract for the Adrestia loan for signing…and the insurance schedule for the exhibition from Brigid. You should probably note there’s going to be four couriers for that one. And here’s the schedule for the next light-sensitive changeovers. All the replacement objects are there. Some of them need to be brought over from the long term store.”

Ignatz doesn’t look at the files, which Sylvain finds a little upsetting. He worked hard to get all that work done. But Ignatz only slings them under his arm and says, “Sylvain, are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” Ignatz says quickly. “I know I can count on you to meet all your deadlines and do everything properly. But you’re usually a lot more…chaotic than this.”

Sylvain laughs as he puts his glasses back on and turns to his computer. “Chaotic?” he questions.

“You arrive late, your desk is piled with paper, you stay late to finish contracts that need to be sent out the next day. I only assigned you the Adrestia loan two days ago. What’s going on?”

Sylvain closes the window on his screen containing the Brigid insurance schedule with a sigh.

“Just trying to build better habits,” he replies.

*

“Like I said, mum, it’s fine,” Sylvain says into his mobile as he shoves his laptop into its bag. He’s meeting Dedue and Ashe for dinner, but since they’re still in the honeymoon period, and can’t wait to get home to rip each other’s clothes off, he expects to be back at the apartment before nine. There’s three good, usable hours after that before he should think about bed.

“I’ll pick dad up at 7,” he continues, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “We’ll be at the hospital by 8, and I’ll stay till you get there. I’ve already teed it up with my boss. Don’t worry. Go have breakfast with your friends.”

“Are you sure? I can cancel. Or call Miklan.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath and adjusts the phone against his ear. “Mum, don’t.”

“Why not? He should help out for once. I know how busy you are. I’m worried you’re not getting any sleep.”

“I’m fine.”

He lets the office door slam behind him. Waves to Bernadetta as he passes her in the hall. She tentatively waves back—a small victory to add to the day’s scorecard.

“Even if Miklan said he would do it, I doubt he’d turn up,” Sylvain says as he swipes his key card at the back door of the gallery. “It’s fine. I’m ahead with work, so it’s not a problem.”

His mother sighs heavily. “What about dinner? You have something at home?”

“I’m meeting friends. Don’t worry about me, mum. I’m fine.”

*

“We were surprised to receive your message,” Dedue states. Ashe nods along from his place hanging off Dedue’s arm. They’re wearing matching scarves. Adorable.

“That’s what I mean,” Sylvain says, digging his hands into his pockets. The chill of winter is starting to bite, even though it’s still early Red Wolf Moon. “It’s been ages since the three of us caught up. I thought it was long overdue.”

“Is there something specific you wish to talk about?” Dedue asks.

“What? No.” Sylvain jogs ahead and opens the door of the restaurant. He gestures for Dedue and Ashe to enter. “I just wanted to catch up with my friends.”

Dedue lets go of Ashe’s hand to nudge the small of his back instead, signalling for him to go first. While Ashe enters the restaurant, Dedue pauses on the threshold to fix Sylvain with a suspicious stare.

“I’m glad.”

There is a clear warning in Dedue’s voice. He’s very protective of Ashe and will never allow him to be put in an uncomfortable situation. Like being caught between two of his friends, especially when he’s closer to one in particular.

Sylvain feels a horrid twinge of guilt because, as usual, Dedue has seen right through him. He can’t deny that he thought about it, before he realised cornering Ashe in that way was a particular type of cruelty. The man was too kind and honest for his own good. But before he can apologise for entertaining such thoughts, Dedue chases his boyfriend into the warmth of the restaurant. Sylvain holds for a moment in the chill wind, blows out a breath, and finally follows, letting the door swing closed behind him.

It takes a few minutes to divest themselves of scarves, gloves, hats, and coats, and that’s all it takes for one of the restaurant’s staff members to recognise Dedue. The three of them are immediately swept from their course to one of the plebeian tables and directed upstairs, where they are invited to sit cross-legged on the floor at the traditional tables. The expensive tables.

As they take their seats, Sylvain flashes Dedue a grin.

“So the staff have given the game away,” he says. “The real reason I called was because walking into a restaurant with Dedue Molinaro would get me the best service, not to mention food, in the house.”

Dedue flushes. Ashe laughs before resting a hand on Dedue’s knee and stretching up to kiss his cheek.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed,” he says as he settles back on the cushion below him.

“I’ve done nothing to deserve special treatment,” Dedue replies softly, with a smile. He laces his fingers between Ashe’s, preventing him from moving any further away. Sylvain suddenly feels wiped from the face of the earth.

“You’ve been on the cover of every food magazine in Fódlan,” he says in an attempt to bring himself back. It works, in so much as the two men across the table look at him. But their fingers are still intertwined.

“Duscur Lane’s the first street food stall to receive three Cethleann stars,” Sylvain says, feeling the need to keep talking, to hold their attention. “You have three top restaurants competing to get you on staff. Give yourself more credit.” He grabs the bottle of sparkling water on the table and Dedue’s glass. “Anyway,” he continues as he pours the beverage, “they’ll probably demand to take your photo so they can put it up in the window, lure other customers in. You’ll be next to Clautra. Food royalty next to actual royalty.”

Dedue blinks—as close as he ever comes to showing distress in public. Trust it to be over having his photo next to Their Royal Highnesses Claude von Riegan and Petra Macneary. Ashe laughs again and pushes the menu towards Dedue.

“What do you want to eat?” he asks, almost shyly. “We may as well enjoy the meal.”

Once again, Sylvain is shut out of the conversation as Dedue leans towards Ashe. They start to debate which dishes they should try, speaking softly, throwing each other enamoured smiles, “accidentally” brushing hands as they point to different things on the menu. Sylvain is happy to see his friends happy, caught up in the excitement of their new relationship status after skirting around their attraction to each other for a good seven years. Or so he tells himself, as he picks up his own menu and peruses it, alone.

*

When Sylvain arrives home, the apartment is gloomy. The ceilings of the living room and study are covered with geometric patterns formed by the harsh light of streetlamps pouring through the windows. The only sound is the fridge groaning. Should call a technician, he thinks as he kicks off his shoes and drops his bag onto his desk. 

Sylvain unpacks his laptop and turns it on before ducking into the kitchen. He dumps three teaspoons of instant coffee and one of sugar into a mug while the kettle boils. Once the kettle squeals, he adds the steaming water. The smell is astringent and overbearing, reviving him a little.

By the time he returns to his desk, the log-in screen is displayed on his computer. He enters the password with one hand while gulping down his coffee, grimacing when it burns his tongue.

At 12:34 PM, according to the clock in the bottom right of the screen, Sylvain removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. They hurt, but he doesn’t feel tired enough. Not yet. And he’s run out of work he can do at home.

With a sigh, he pushes himself away from the desk. He drops onto the couch in the living room and turns on the TV. Pickings are slim; he flicks through more than a dozen channels before settling on a rerun of some historical drama. When he catches himself dozing off—2:19 AM—he cuts the hero off mid-confession. The room goes dark. It’s a load of bullshit anyway.

Sylvain stumbles into the bedroom, drops his phone on the bedside table, and falls face first onto the bed. Then, he swears. He’s still wearing his work clothes. With eyes closed, he rolls onto his back and undoes his shirt. He manages to get it off without sitting up. His trousers prove a bit more difficult, but before too long his clothes are on a pile on the floor and he can sink into the mattress without guilt.

“Night, Ing,” he sighs.

There’s no answer.

Sylvain opens his eyes. His mind catches up. He rolls to the edge of the bed and picks up his phone.

**~day thirty-six: fake niceties~**

The front door of Dimitri and Byleth’s house clicks. Sylvain plasters a smile on his face right before Dimitri’s comes into view.

“Happy birthday, man!” he cries.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri replies. There’s a tightness around his mouth that makes Sylvain nervous. “Come in. The others are already here.”

The others. Sylvain nods cheerfully and follows Dimitri through the door, down the hallway into the joint kitchen-dining room. From the archway he sees Felix standing near the bench, a cola in one hand. Byleth, one hand resting on her baby bump, hovers near Dedue, who stands over the cooktop monitoring several pots and pans. Mercedes and Annette are seated at the table.

And Ashe is standing by the Leicester doors into the garden with Ingrid.

She’s wearing jeans and a thick green sweater. She’s laughing, eyes lit with delight, enhanced by a hint of emerald eyeshadow. Her hair’s been cut into the bob she’d preferred when they started dating, before she stopped going to the salon. Why had she stopped doing that?

Sylvain halts. She’s stunning. And she’s thriving. He feels like someone has plunged a knife into his chest, is slowly cutting around his heart, yanking it free.

Then Ingrid turns her head. Her smile falters.

Sylvain can’t breathe.

It’s still there. When their eyes meet, he feels that heady rush through his body, born of hours of conversation, going to movies together, eating meals. Laughing and playing and sharing joy. Visiting family on the holidays, helping each other’s parents. Sleeping beside each other. Kissing and touching and making love. Holding each other in the quiet hours of the night, limbs tangled. Offering protection from anger, grief, pain.

“Sylvain.”

Sylvain turns to see Byleth slotted under Dimitri’s arm, hers around his waist. She looks tired and overwhelmed. At the bar a few nights earlier, Dimitri revealed that he’d tried to tell her he didn’t need a party. She’d refused to listen.

“Thanks for coming,” Byleth says with a small smile.

“As though I could stay away,” Sylvain replies.

Dimitri and Byleth share a look, too weighed down with meaning for Sylvain to be comfortable. He’s just arrived and already his friends anticipate trouble.

“Where’s the beer?” he asks quickly.

He makes a beeline for the kitchen before either of them can answer. He has to push past Felix, who throws him a poisonous glare. He meets it with a wide smile.

“Felix. How’re things?”

“We’re talking then?” Felix spits.

“Come on,” Sylvain laughs, grabbing the first bottle he sees. “You’re my best friend.”

“Whatever. Have you spoken to Ingrid?”

Sylvain feels the smile fall away, irretrievable.

“Don’t be such an asshole,” he says quietly.

Felix shakes his head with a sigh and turns his back. Sylvain watches him take a seat next to Mercedes.

“It’s hard for him to be caught in the middle.”

Sylvain looks at Dedue. He’s stirring a pot of something—something delicious, judging by the smell. But Sylvain can feel his appetite rapidly retreating.

“It’s not like we’re forcing him to take sides,” he says.

“Aren’t you?” Dedue asks thoughtfully.

Sylvain takes a deep breath, then deposits his beer on the counter, unopened, and walks away. Straight up to Ashe and Ingrid, who watch him approach. Ashe looks worried. Ingrid is completely unperturbed.

“Hey Ashe,” Sylvain says.

Ashe nods nervously.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain adds, turning to her. The room behind him falls silent. “Good to see you. How’re things?”

Ingrid folds her arms across her chest. He holds back a smirk. She’s uncomfortable.

“Not bad,” she says. “How are you?”

“Fantastic,” Sylvain says. “Couldn’t be better.”

“And work?”

Sylvain shrugs, committing himself to the act. Because it is an act. That’s all it can be. It’s not real, because if it was, he’d be at home, sprawled on the couch with a half-eaten pizza while that damned historical drama played out its nonsense on the TV.

“Busy, I guess,” he answers. “Lots going on.”

“I guess it’s changeover season,” Ingrid says.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

Everything goes quiet and Sylvain realises he’s missed his cue.

“And how about you? Everything okay with work?”

Ingrid nods. “The usual. Lots of new clients.” She pauses, then says, very softly, “I…I got an offer. From Charon Corp.”

Charon Corp. Her dream company. It’s like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head. All the times they discussed what it would be like once she got a job there. How she would be able to chase her dreams. And in the end, he hadn’t been there to congratulate her when she got the call. To jump up and down, devise crazy ways to celebrate, to kiss her and tell her how amazing she is.

“It’s only entry level, but it’s a step in the door, right?” Ingrid adds. “And they promised lots of opportunities to advance.”

Sylvain swallows. “That’s good,” he manages.

“Yeah.”

Ingrid drops her arms to her side and glances away. Her hair shifts over her ear, and Sylvain is distracted by the smooth skin below it, the elegant line of her neck from the curve of her chin down to the V-neck of her sweater. He remembers pulling her close and nuzzling her there. The sweet, warm scent of her. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

“Good to see you,” he says, surprising himself when he realises he means it.

“You too,” Ingrid echoes, turning back to Ashe.

She doesn’t.

**~day forty-three: the dress I wore at midnight~**

Sylvain frowns and turns his phone so the video readjusts to the correct orientation. His heart beats a little quicker as he presses play. The camera shakes as Ingrid comes into frame, her head above the fridge door, a single finger in her mouth. Frozen. Her eyes wide as she looks beyond the camera, at the person behind it. At Sylvain himself. He’s laughing; that’s why the camera’s shaking.

“What are you doing?” comes his voice. It sounds so whiny and horrible. How did Ingrid put up with him?

Onscreen, Ingrid grimaces as she pulls her finger from between her lips. She looks back into the fridge, then carefully shuts the door.

“Nothing,” she says. “Why are you filming?”

“Evidence,” Sylvain chuckles.

Ingrid winces and reaches for his phone. The angle changes, capturing her from a height.

“Sylvain, stop it,” she says.

“You’re guilty as hell.”

“Sylvain!” She jumps, trying to snatch the phone away from him. 

“I bet if I open the fridge right now, there’ll be a finger mark in the cream.”

“I wasn’t eating the cream.”

But she was. They both know she was, because she did, and he saw her. But she’s starting to enjoy the game and to play along. He knows from her tone, her smirk, the twinkle in her eye.

“Oh really?” Sylvain says.

She squeaks as he darts around her and grabs the fridge’s handle. With a desperate gasp, she throws herself in front of it, one hand pressing it shut.

“Sylvain,” she says in that warning tone. She’s never looking directly at the camera, always focussed on him. He has her full attention.

“Ingrid,” he responds. “Could you please move? I just need to get in there.”

“There’s nothing in there,” she says.

“I want some juice.”

“There’s none left.”

“You drank that as well as eating the cream? What am I going to poach the peaches in? And put on top of them? You know how much Felix likes my peaches and cream.” He can barely keep a straight face now. Neither can Ingrid. But he presses on. “How could…”

That’s as far as he gets before Ingrid pouts and gets that maniacal look in her eye. Then she lifts her hand and covers the camera lens. The sound of shuffling, a long moment of black. And the video ends.

She kissed him.

She kissed him to avoid the consequences of eating the cream.

It worked.

Sylvain’s finger hovers over the trash button. There’s no reason to keep it. No reason at all. Why hold onto something that will only be painful in months and years to come? That is so painful now that he feels nauseous?

What’s the point of holding onto happy memories?

**~day fifty: you haven’t met the new me yet~**

The knock on the door is sharp and unexpected. No one knocks on Sylvain’s door. At least, not without advance warning. But he didn’t hear the intercom beep, the request for entry from the door below. And because of that, curiosity gets the better of him. He opens it.

Ingrid looks small, standing on his threshold in a thick winter coat with a faux-fur hood, hands buried in her pockets, looking up at him. But she looks well. There is colour in her cheeks and a certain freshness about her face.

He can’t wish she didn’t look so well. It wouldn’t help anyway.

“Sylvain,” she says.

She pauses, as though waiting for him to greet her in turn. He doesn’t. So she bites her lip and shifts her weight, then pulls a hand out of her pocket. She’s holding something.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she says in a rush. “I just...I wanted to return this. I didn’t mean to take it. It must’ve been mixed up in my things.”

Sylvain’s fingers feel numb as they wrap around the small, black box. He leans against the doorway as he holds it on one palm and lifts the lid.

The round cut emerald winks at him in the harsh light of the building’s hallway. He draws in a breath and stares at it, at the two tiny diamonds at its sides, at the golden band. He spent hours debating which ring to buy. He settled on this one because it was unique, beautiful, elegant. Like Ingrid.

“It’s yours, Ingrid,” he says when he can finally speak.

“No, it’s not,” she says. “It’s for whoever’s brave enough to stay.”

Sylvain snaps the box shut and clenches it in his fist.

“Is that what it was?” he asks softly. “You weren’t brave enough?”

Ingrid smiles sadly. She tilts her head to the left, regarding him intently. He’s always felt like she can see right through to his soul. Today is no different, but because of everything that’s happened he feels more naked than usual.

“I’m so sorry, Sylvain,” she says.

“And I’m angry,” he whispers.

Ingrid wraps her fingers around the strap of her shoulder bag. “I don’t blame you. I guess, in your situation, I would be too.”

Sylvain leans against the doorframe. Is there anything to say to that?

“Why?”

Ingrid bites her lip. They stare at each other, not shying away. They’ve been through too much for that. They know each other too well. There’s no hiding. There’s no point trying, now they’re face to face.

“We’ve already had this conversation, Sylvain,” she says.

“But you never answered the question.”

“I did.”

“No, Ingrid. You didn’t.”

“I tried to.”

“You refused to.”

Ingrid sighs, closing her eyes. “I still don’t want to hurt you. No matter what, you’re part of me. You always will be. You’re my first love.”

Sylvain feels the full, brute force of that statement. It twists in his heart like a knife. He hates her for doing this to them. He hates himself for never realising it was happening.

He steps backwards.

“Do you want to come in?” he asks gently.

Ingrid looks up. “No, Sylvain. That’s not a good idea.”

It’s impossible to argue with her. He knows it isn’t. But he doesn’t know what else to do, what to say. How to wade his way through the swamp between them, flooded with the worst and best of their feelings, with the years they’ve shared. And lost.

“It isn’t that I don’t love you,” Ingrid says. “Please know that.”

Somehow, those words are no less painful than the ones Sylvain has imagined ever since he arrived home to find the stupid vase gone. In fact, they cut even deeper. And because of that, he is more lost for words than ever.

“You’re a good man,” Ingrid continues. “You always have been. That’s why I wanted to be with you in the first place. That’s why I stayed with you. That’s why, for a little while, I thought I could spend the rest of my life with you. But I was wrong.”

“Because I’m not who you thought I was?” Sylvain laughs, bitterly.

“Because that’s not who I am.” She takes a deep breath and looks towards the wall. Away from him. “I watched you take care of me, every day, for four months after dad died. You were amazing. And you deserve someone who would do the same for you.”

Ingrid meets his eyes, then reaches out to take his empty hand.

“That person’s not me, Sylvain,” she says. “I’m too selfish.”

He searches her face for any hint of a lie. There isn’t one.

“I want things,” Ingrid whispers. “I want so much from life. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it. And because of that, I can never take care of you the way you deserve.”

Sylvain laughs. Because what else is there to do?

“What is this? Some sort of stupid, modern-day chivalry?” he demands.

“Perhaps,” Ingrid replies with a smile, as she lets go of his hand. He immediately misses its warmth. “In a way.”

“Then,” he says, “if you ever figure it out, or change your mind, will you come back?”

He stops himself from adding please. _Please come back._

Ingrid smiles. She doesn’t shake her head, or nod. Just smiles.

“Find someone kind,” she says. “Kind and beautiful. To—to take my spot. Promise?”

She doesn’t wait to hear the answer. She spins on her heel and hurries away, towards the lift. Sylvain props an arm against the doorframe, fingers still wrapped around the ring box. And watches her go.

**~the best that I had~**

It’s their third anniversary. And it’s time. Sylvain knows that in the deepest part of his soul. He loves Ingrid more than anyone else in the world. Sure, she’s been a bit distant lately, but that’s the combined stress of work and her dad’s illness. This will be something to cheer her up. Something to look forward to. Something for her dad to look forward to as well. Because Sylvain knows that although he would never ask his daughter to do anything she doesn’t want to, he secretly hopes that she settles down and gets married and is taken care of. He’s old-fashioned in that way, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting to know your daughter will be okay.

Sylvain only hopes he’s up to the task.

For the proposal itself, he thought about doing something elaborate. He searched for ideas in a private window on his phone for hours, before realising that there were two major flaws in his plans: Felix and Dimitri. You need the right people to pull off grand proposals, and although he loves his friends, he’s not so smitten as to think them up to the task.

So Sylvain settled on something simple. A quiet dinner at home, which he’s preparing now. A lovely spring walk by the river. Getting down on one knee in the place where they kissed on their first date.

He smiles. He remembers Ingrid’s pout so clearly, after he stopped on the boardwalk beside her and put his arm around her waist.

“For Sothis’ sake,” she snapped. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten. You don’t need to do this. You don’t need to prove anything. Just kiss me already.”

Sylvain shakes his head fondly as he picks up the next carrot. There’s no question in his mind at all. Ingrid’s the one.

His phone buzzes across the counter and Ingrid’s face appears on the screen. He picks up immediately and shoves it between his shoulder and ear so he can keep peeling the carrot.

“Hello beaut—”

“Sylvain,” Ingrid chokes.

Sylvain drops the carrot and the peeler, holds the phone against his ear.

“Ingrid,” he asks, fear gathering in the pit of his stomach. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“He’s…” she sobs. His heart breaks. “Syl, dad’s gone. He’s gone, and…I don’t know what to do, I…”

Sylvain spins to the oven and turns it off.

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m still at work. I…I can’t stop crying, I…”

“Stay there. Don’t drive. I’m coming.”

He shoves his feet into the house slippers at the front door and grabs his car keys. When he finally gets to Ingrid’s office, he sees her out the front, chewing her nail, her eyes swollen, dancing from foot to foot. He parks in a loading zone and jumps out of the car. She sprints across the pavement, throws herself at him, and breaks down in his arms.

They go to Ingrid’s brother’s house. Kris was with his father when he passed, and now he sits in silence on the couch. He animates for only a moment when Ingrid arrives, then the two of them sit together, arms looped, Ingrid’s head on her brother’s shoulder. Lydia, Kris’s wife, gestures for Sylvain to follow her to the kitchen.

“What happened?” Sylvain asks the moment they’re out of earshot of their partners.

Lydia shrugs. “It was time,” she whispers. Her voice is thick, as though she’s holding back tears too. “When you think about it, the doctors never gave any indication of how long it would be. And that was at dad’s request, so fair enough. But I thought we’d have a couple of months, at least.”

Sylvain thinks of the ring hidden on the bookshelf at home, behind his History of Sreng.

“So did I,” he says.

They stay until midnight. It’s only when Lydia shoots Sylvain a look—one he understands, because it encompasses everything he is feeling—that he eases Ingrid off the couch and towards the door. They can’t do anything to ease their loved ones’ pain, but they can at least get them to bed.

Ingrid curls up in the passenger seat of Sylvain’s car and is silent the entire way home. He glances at her every now and then, to make sure she’s okay. She’s not. Although her tears have dried up; she has no more to give.

When Sylvain parks the car, she takes a long time to move. Sylvain waits until she unfurls herself from her cocoon and opens the door. He watches, hands on the steering wheel because he doesn’t know what else to do with them, as she crosses the car park to the lift and presses the button. A short minute later the doors close, blocking her from sight, taking her away, and Sylvain lets out a trembling breath. He drops his forehead to the top of the steering wheel and closes his eyes.

 _No time for this,_ he tells himself. _She needs you._

He finds her in the kitchen, staring at the mess he left behind when she called. He knows she won’t, but still finds himself praying she won’t open the oven and see the partially cooked roast. She knows he only cooks that on special occasions because it takes so damned long, and she’s too impatient to wait for food. If she sees it, she might guess.

She doesn’t. She just stands there, surveying the carrots.

“Ing?” Sylvain ventures.

Ingrid wraps her arms around herself.

“I’m going to bed,” she says.

But she doesn’t move.

“Not hungry?” Sylvain asks.

Ingrid shakes her head. Then she spins to him and wraps her arms around him, squeezing tightly. He rests an arm over her shoulders and turns her towards the bedroom.

“Come on,” he says.

He helps her remove her wrinkled shirt and trousers, clothing that had been crisp and ironed that morning. He guides her through the motions of cleaning her teeth, then brushes her hair for her. When she’s safely in the bed, he strips down and climbs under the duvet beside her. She wraps her arms around him again and buries her face against his chest. And somehow, her tears resurrect. He strokes her hair and lets her cry.

The week that follows is a blur of the worst types of decisions. Sylvain eases one of them by offering to give the eulogy. Ingrid squeezes his hand and Kris conveys his thanks with a single look, unable to speak them aloud. And Sylvain understands that. There’s a certain shame in knowing you won’t be able to farewell a parent without breaking down in front of the mourners.

Every night, Ingrid clings to Sylvain. He takes to humming her favourite songs because it’s the only way she falls asleep.

The days pass in a broken haze. Sylvain goes to work; comes home. Cooks dinner; makes sure Ingrid eats. Washes the dishes and does the laundry. When the chores are done, he finds Ingrid staring blankly at the TV. He sits besides her and gathers her into his arms. Sometimes she returns his embrace, sometimes she doesn’t. He’s unsure if that matters.

Go to bed; sleep. Repeat.

Things get better when Ingrid goes back to work. By the end of the second week she meekly shares a story over dinner that has nothing to do with her father. At the end of the third, she makes dinner for them both and gives Sylvain a kiss when she serves it. At the start of the fourth, she pauses on the other side of the room to look at him. Really look at him.

They go to bed early that night.

It’s another two months after that before Sylvain feels things have settled back to something like normal. One Saturday morning, he feels brave. He makes pancakes with bacon and proper coffee. He carries them to the bedroom on a tray set with a rose. Ingrid wrinkles her nose at him as he places it on her lap. But she eats the breakfast enthusiastically and praises him as he moves the tray aside. He sits down on the bed, pulls the ring box from his pocket and opens it.

There is silence. He’s never endured such silence in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to paperpenpal for being an amazing and patient beta and for making a last minute suggestion that fixed the entire story.
> 
> See you again for my second contribution to the project. For more follow the [Sylvgrid Evermore Project twitter](https://twitter.com/SylvgridTs)!


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